


Fantasy High Drabbles

by letitout



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Fantasy High
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letitout/pseuds/letitout
Summary: A collection of Fantasy High drabbles and one-shots.
Relationships: Adaine Abernant/Figueroth Faeth, Kristen Applebees/Tracker, Riz Gukgak/Fabian Aramais Seacaster, Zelda Donovan/Gorgug Thistlespring
Comments: 18
Kudos: 152





	1. Vanilla & Eggshells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kristen and Tracker plan a wedding.

Kristen wasn’t really prepared for how much work goes into planning a wedding. When she and Tracker had first talked about getting married, in a serious, oh, shit, this isn’t a vague idea for the future, this is maybe something we should start thinking about now sort of way, it all seemed so shiny and inviting. Kristen pictured the two of them getting married next to a lake, her and Tracker in matching white suits, and a pyramid of champagne flutes. Now that they’re six months into planning, Kristen is ready to tear her hair out if another person mentions floral arrangements or table centrepieces. As it turns out, holding a wedding in a public space such as a lake requires a permit, so they settled on an indoor venue. Now they’re stuck with things like having to consider a colour scheme and decorations and seating arrangements, and fuck, hiring a venue on top of everything else is expensive. After years of adventuring, spellcasting, healing, and combat, it all seems like a walk in the park compared to planning a wedding. Kristen would much rather have to go through the stress of watching a party member die (and promptly revive them) than have another conversation about catering. 

“What’s the difference?” Kristen asks Tracker, holding up two card samples for wedding invitations, “Truly, what am I missing here?” 

Tracker looks up from a huge binder of assorted napkin arrangements for the tables. 

“Babe, that one is Eggshell and this one is Vanilla,” Tracker says, speaking as though she were making perfect sense and not just throwing a handful of random words together like Kristen suspects she might be. Kristen doesn’t know where Tracker gets the patience for all of this from. Everything looks the same to Kristen, but according to Tracker, there’s very distinct differences. “Have we decided on the finish yet? I don’t like any of the glossy ones, but I’m torn between matte and satin.” 

“Tracker,” Kristen says, placing down the samples in front of her, “I love you with all of my heart. I could not imagine going through this with anyone else without wanting to kill them- but this is crazy. I’m sorry. I truly, truly cannot tell the difference between any of these pieces of paper-”

“It’s not paper, it’s card, remember, I didn’t want them to bend in the post-”

“And I don’t think every detail needs to be perfect. It just has to be. I don’t know what font, or size of lettering I want, I’d just like something to give our guests that says ‘Hey! Here’s where we’re getting married! Here’s the time it starts! Please tell us if you’re coming!’” Kristen says. 

Tracker closes the binder and places in down on their kitchen table. She stands up and shuffles her chair besides Kristen’s, and takes Kristen’s hand in her own. Tracker gives Kristen’s hand a little squeeze. 

“I know it’s stressful, babe, but the quicker we make these decisions, the quicker it will be over, right?” Tracker says, looking at Kristen in that way that makes Kristens resolve crumble. Kristen huffs. 

“Right, which is why we’re still in the kitchen at 3am, trying to play spot the difference between vases and napkins,” Kristen says, but the annoyance has slipped from her voice. Tracker does that to her. In all honesty, it’s not as bad as Kristen makes it out to be. Kristen knows that if she was having a truly terrible time, Tracker would never dream of making her do any of this. Kristen knows how much all of this means to Tracker, however foreign it is to herself, and this is where they meet in the middle. Kristen would be willing to go through a lot worse than trying to decipher the difference between Eggshell white and Vanilla white if she knew that it was important to Tracker. 

“Bed soon. For now, I need you to make an absolutely vital decision,” Tracker says, and takes the samples from Kristen. She wraps her arms around either side of Kristen, for no practical reason other than to be close, and holds the cards out in front of her.

Kristen squints at the samples, and okay, maybe they’re a little bit different from each other. By a small margin. Maybe. 

“Vanilla,” Kristen grumbles, and Tracker gives her a kiss on the cheek. 

“Great! Just what I was thinking. Okay, now font-” 

“There’s more?” Kristen whines, “Can’t we just give them to Fabian and tell him to do his special calligraphy shit as like, a wedding present or something?” 

“No way,” Tracker says, as she begins trying to straighten out the whirlwind of samples and binders and loose pens that dominates the table, “We specifically can’t ask Fabian, because his invitation is going to be different to everyone else’s.” 

“Huh? Why?” Kristen asks, racking her brain for a conversation they might have had about this particular subject. There’s just so much to remember, and a lot of it slips. Particularly to do with food restrictions for the caterers. One of the guests had told her of an allergy- either nuts or shellfish- and Kristen can’t work out for the life of her which one it was. She should probably get on that. 

“We’re not letting Fabian have a plus one,” Tracker says, pushing a catalogue of Traditional Wedding Invitation Wording towards Kristen, who regards it the same way a young child may regard a plate full of vegetables that they’re being forced to eat. 

“We’re not?” Kristen asks, because she’s pretty sure they haven’t had this conversation. 

“Yup. If he’s with Alewyn, he’ll bring her, which is a no-go if Adaine is there. If they’re having one of their ‘breaks’, he’ll just bring some girlfriend he’s been seeing for three weeks at most, and I think it’s a pretty established fact that Fabian has terrible taste in women,” Tracker says, and begins to flip through the catalogue to wear she’s marked out specific examples of font styles.  
“Okay, yeah, not a good idea if he’s back with Alewyn, but I don’t think all of his girlfriends have been terrible,” Kristen says, and Tracker raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh yeah? Tell me one person that he’s dated that has been solid,” Tracker challenges, and when Kristen opens her mouth, Tracker jumps in with, “And Fig doesn’t count, because it lasted for two days and they both said it was weird.” 

Kristen takes a moment to think, “I mean, the last girl wasn’t too bad. She was funny, and she laughed at my jokes. She showed me pictures of her pet bird on her crystal.” 

Tracker snorts, “She was totally boozy. I think she pre-gamed that harvest festival. It was 4pm.” 

“She wasn’t that boozy,” Kristen protests. 

“I think she stole a bottle of wine.”

“What? From where?”

“The festival!”

“Where did she get it from? I didn’t see any wine.”

“The raffle! I think they were auctioning off some elven wine as like, a prize or something. Except then it went missing, and she left with a pretty suspicious lump under her sweater,” Tracker says, and when she and Kristen catch each other’s eyes, Kristen has to bite down on her lip to stop herself from dissolving into giggles, “Honey, I know you’re inclined to see the best in people, and I love that about you, but I think this one time we can maybe admit that Fabian and his girlfriends aren’t the best idea for our wedding.” 

“Okay, yeah, maybe we shouldn’t let Fabian bring a plus one. Point taken,” Kristen says, and then gesturing over to the binder Tracker had been reading earlier, “it would be truly devastating if someone were to steal a swan shaped napkin. I don’t think I’d be able to recover.” 

Tracker grins and pinches Kristen’s arm playfully. 

“Be nice. When we have grandkids, and they ask how we folded our napkins at our wedding, you’ll be grateful that I was so forward-thinking,” Tracker says. She turns her attention back to the invitation details, and they spend a few minutes ruling options out. And hey, maybe Kristen does find a tiny little bit of it fun. She likes having opinions and being able to voice them, and she likes how nothing she says is wrong around Tracker. She’ll say that a font is too squiggly or doesn’t have round enough edges and Tracker will nod solemnly, taking every detail into account. It’s cute to see Tracker so focused on something. This type of dedication is usually reserved for spellcasting and church initiatives. It’s good for her, Kristen thinks, for Tracker to be so deeply involved in something that’s just for her. Tracker deserves to be selfish sometimes. 

“So how many are we ordering?” Tracker says, pulling out a pad, scribbling down some rough maths, “Did you decide how many you needed?” 

Kristen shifts in her seat. Tracker is so lost in her own world that Kristen doesn’t want to spoil the mood, so she mumbles out an, “Uh, not too sure yet.” 

Tracker, of course, picks up on this. They’ve lived together in such close proximity for too long for Tracker not to notice every slight shift in Kristen’s demeanor. And suddenly Tracker is looking at Kristen with all her attention, placing the notepad and brochures to the side. 

“What’s up?” Tracker asks, because they’re long past formalities like are you okay? Is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it? They know, by now, the exact tone of voice that indicates when something isn’t great. They don’t have to ask. 

“Mom called last night,” Kristen says, and Tracker audibly inhales air through her teeth. They know the score by now. It’s the same story each time. Kristen’s mom calls on very few occasions, none of them ever good. It usually results in Kristen lying on the sofa, head in Tracker’s lap, while Tracker strokes her hair and curses Kristen’s mother, swearing like a sailor. Tracker manages to vocalise everything Kristen is not yet ready to put out into the universe in fear of some karmic retribution. 

Tracker takes both of Kristen’s hands in her own, an action that is strong and soft at the same time. 

“What was it this time?” Tracker asks, “Did she try and invite herself? Because I thought-”

“No,” Kristen says, because that door was closed a while ago; maybe when Kristen first left the house, maybe when Kristen informed her parents that she had a girlfriend, maybe when they found out that Kristen had renounced Helio entirely, “She told me not to invite Bucky, or Bricker, or Cork.”

Tracker’s face instantly twists in a badly subdued anger, “She doesn’t get a say in who we invite. She’s not even coming.”

“That’s not the problem. She said that if they came, they’d be showing what side they’re truly on, and they’d no longer,” Kristen swallows, feeling her voice shake, “And they wouldn’t be her sons anymore.”

Tracker’s face instantly softens, “Oh, Krissy. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Kristen says, trying to smile, “It’s a shame that they won’t be there, but it’s not like they have a choice. You know how it is. They still live with her. I couldn’t do that to them. Not when I can’t support them myself.” 

Tracker frowns, and then pulls Kristen towards her, setting Kristen’s head gently down on her shoulder. Tracker wraps her arms around Kristen, and does what she does best- she shares Kristen’s pain, slicing it evenly down the middle, taking all of what Kristen can’t handle and putting it on herself. Tracker knows what it’s like to have shitty parents who don’t understand. They found comfort in staying awake in bed, lying in the dark and talking about the fact that it still hurt that their parents weren’t going to be at the wedding, even if their parents were shitty people. They talked about finding their own way, and discussing what family actually meant, and they could always relate to one another. Only now, Tracker doesn’t have siblings to not show up. Maybe if it were anyone else, Kristen would feel alone. But Tracker won’t let her. They go through everything together, hand in hand, even when it’s hard. 

“We can postpone it, you know,” Tracker mumbles into Kristen’s hair. Kristen twists her head to look up at Tracker. Tracker, who found the perfect date to get married, who found the venue, who found the caterer, who found the perfect damn napkins and floral arrangements. The idea of an empty table where she imagined her brothers, or negative space in the wedding photos that they were supposed to occupy hurts, but in the end, this is just a day to Kristen. It will never mean as much to her as it does to Tracker, and after all of the effort Tracker has put into this, Kristen doesn’t think she could bring herself to delay the wedding for another two years or so. 

“No,” Kristen mumbles back, “We’re having it as it is. Fuck the guests. The only person I care about being there is you.” 

Tracker smiles softly, and leans down to kiss Kristen, and when she pulls away, her lips still just centimetres away from Kristen’s, she says, “That’s extremely sweet, but I’m still going to need your full guest list by Monday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad for writing Trackerbees angst so I decided to make up for it by writing something fluffy. Or at least as fluffy as I am capable of.


	2. Perception Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zelda is mad, and Gorgug doesn't know why.

It’s happening again. 

Gorgug sits across from Zelda, who is scowling at him, her arms folded over her chest. Gorgug doesn’t think that it’s entirely fair that he’s mocked for having bad perception. He can see that Zelda is angry. He recognises all the signs: the way she purses her lips, how her shoulders tense up, and the way she keeps blowing her bangs up into the air away from her eyes. He knows that she’s angry- he just doesn’t know _why_. 

This is a recurring issue with Gorgug. Sometimes it feels like the whole world has been handed a manual on reading between the lines, and he is stranded, alone, without a copy. People don’t say what they mean. They say _I’m fine_ when they’re not and they say _don’t worry about it_ when they do want you to worry, but sometimes it’s the other way around, and Gorgug’s brain begins to swim with all these different rules and secret codes. For some unknown reason, saying what you really mean is a bad thing. Now is a prime example. 

“I just wish that you had told me, that’s all!” Zelda huffs. She’s so small- even in her anger, she draws into herself, careful not to take up too much space. It’s hard. Gorgug is so used to taking up too much room in every situation, that sometimes it feels like if he’s not careful Zelda will turn to glass and he’ll manage to shatter her. 

“You didn’t ask,” Gorgug says meekly, because what else can he say? He doesn’t know why Zelda is upset. She’s the one who asked if he had ever kissed anyone before, and sure, Ragh was one of those people. He doesn’t know what the problem is. Did he do something wrong? Gorgug desperately plays the conversation over in his head, looking for a slip-up or a coded message.

“I shouldn’t have to ask,” Zelda says, her voice quiet and contained again, “That’s just, like, the stuff that boyfriends tell their girlfriends.” 

“I’m telling you now,” Gorgug says, feeling heat creep up his throat. If she told him what the problem was, he could fix it. Or he could try, at least. But right now, it feels like she’s thrown him into a dungeon full of traps with a blindfold on. One wrong move and he’s finished. 

“That’s not the point, Gorgug,” Zelda says, and then, shifting in her seat, “You spend loads of time with him. Don’t you think that’s weird?” 

“No,” Gorgug frowns, “He doesn’t have an adventuring party, so he hangs out with us. Why would that be weird?” 

Gorgug, admittedly, is not an expert at identifying what is weird or not. Asking random men if they were his father was apparently weird- though Gorgug still struggles to see why. If he just asked- the most logical approach- he would get a clear cut answer. A simple yes or no, and then he could move on, having gathered all the information he needed. Gorgug doesn’t know why people insist on tip-toeing around the truth, afraid to ask for what the actually want.

“Do you,” Zelda says, and then sighs, and looks down at the table, “Do you like him?” 

“No!” Gorgug says. Maybe he did, at one point- but it’s all past tense. Zelda is his girlfriend. This is a fact he is very sure of. 

“ _Did_ you like him?” Zelda asks. Gorgug pauses. The question feels very intimate, somehow. 

“I, uh,” Gorgug stammers, “I guess I did.” 

“Oh _god_ ,” Zelda says, “I knew it. I knew it. He’s obviously in love with you! And you’re going to realise that he’s cool and popular, and you’re cool and popular, and you shouldn’t be dating someone who isn’t.” 

It’s still strange to Gorgug, being referred to as _popular_ . It doesn’t feel accurate. Popular should be a word reserved for someone like Fig, who is charismatic and beautiful, or someone like Fabian, who is rich and confident. Maybe even Adaine, who falls somewhere in between Fabian and Fig. Even with her anxiety, her talent and good looks and the way she holds herself that screams _wealthy_ shines through. 

Sometimes at night, when there are no distractions, and there is only Gorgug and his thoughts, Kalvaxus’ words still rattle through his skull until he can’t hear anything else. _Idiot. Freak. Loser._ That’s what Gorgug still secretly thinks he is destined to be. There are a lot of people who have no problem telling him exactly what they think about him, and a lot of it revolves around the word _stupid_. 

“What?” Zelda says, eyes wide, and it’s only then that Gorgug realises that he’s said _stupid_ out loud. 

“Sorry, I mean, I’m being stupid. Or this is stupid. Or something. You’re my girlfriend. If I wanted to date Ragh, why would I be dating you?” Gorgug says, and as soon as the words have left his mouth, Zelda’s strained expression makes it immediately obvious that this was the wrong thing to say. 

“I don’t know,” Zelda says, her voice dark, clouded, “You tell me.”

Zelda slips off of the seat, and walks away. Gorgug blinks at the empty space that she occupied a moment ago. 

It’s not fun, being him, sometimes. Gorgug knows, in the grand scheme of things, he has it better than some of his fellow adventuring party members. All of his parents are alive- all four of them. He lives at home with his family. He doesn’t get panic attacks and he’s not depressed. It’s just- it’s easy to make a mess of things. He tries. He tries so _hard_ , and yet. Gorgug wonders if the rest of his life will be spent like this, dancing around social interactions, always being two steps behind everyone else. It just doesn’t seem fair. 

Gorgug takes out his crystal. He considers calling someone smart, who will know what to do. Adaine and Riz are his go-to’s in the intelligence department. They’ll have the right advice, but somehow, he doesn’t want them involved. He doesn’t like the way they look at him sometimes, with an expression that says _how do you not see the solution?_ He could go to Fig or Kristen for some warmth. Fabian for a distraction. His fingers hover over the contacts on his crystal. 

His perception may be low, but he knows a bad idea when he sees one. 

And yet. 

The crystal rings for a few moments, before a crackly voice comes down from the other end. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey,” Gorgug says, and clears his throat, “Hey Ragh. You free?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messy prose, but you can rip neurodivergent Gorgug out of my cold, dead hands.


	3. Best Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaine reflects on her friendship with Fig.

Fig mouths the lyrics to songs in public. Adaine wonders if Fig is even aware that she’s doing it. They’ll be in the school library or on a bus or traipsing through a supermarket and suddenly Fig’s eyes will glaze over and she’ll lose herself in some song. Adaine will watch Fig’s lips as they recite the words like silent prayers, or she’ll watch Fig's fingers, and how they tap out the beat of whatever song is stuck in her head. Sometimes Fig catches her watching. Fig doesn’t mind- in fact, she plays into it. She’ll grin and start to head-bang or dance, maybe even sing for Adaine, letting her in on a private joke just for the two of them. 

Alone, Adaine would never lip-sync to songs in public. She wouldn’t sit in a shopping cart and be pushed around, either, or take selfies at the bus-stop. Fig just has that effect on her. Fig is brave where Adaine is fearful, she’s loud where Adaine is quiet, she’s playful where Adaine is sensible. Adaine likes being able to shelve her high-elf upbringing around Fig. There is no pressure to achieve or uphold perfect manners. Fig’s definition of success looks a lot like seeing who can eat a packet of chips the fastest, tilting her head back and getting crumbs all over herself that she messily wipes away. There are no rules with Fig, just unbridled grins and unkempt hair and singing lyrics loudly around strangers. 

There’s balance here, too. Adaine knows that Fig likes her bluntness. By knowing all of the rules like the back of her hand, Adaine has a far easier time worming them out of trouble by finding loopholes. Adaine is there to help with homework and give book recommendations and to swap pyjamas with. Adaine is also there to be a shoulder to lean on. Adaine remembers the night that Fig officially came clean and broke things off with Dr. Asha. She turned up at Adaine’s room with a sour expression on her face and mascara streaming down her cheeks, and Adaine bundled her up and took Fig into her room and went through the motions. They watched a romantic comedy and ate ice-cream and talked until their eyelids couldn’t stay open anymore, and, okay, Adaine might have felt secretly pleased. Just a little. In a totally, non-selfish way, Adaine liked being the one that Fig trusted, and she liked cramming the two of them into her one person bed and stroking Fig’s hair until she fell asleep, and oddly enough, she liked sitting so close that she learnt the rhythm of Fig’s breathing and how Fig’s hand brushed against hers each time she shifted in place. Sue her. 

In all honesty, Adaine knows what this is. She’s watched enough movies and read enough books to be able to identify what she feels when she looks at Fig. (She had, in fact, considered casting  _ Identify  _ on herself, before becoming paranoid that someone would cast  _ Detect Magic  _ soon after and she’d have some explaining to do- and if there’s one thing Adaine isn’t great at, it’s lying). It’s different than how she expected it to be. Butterflies do not swarm in her stomach and orchestral strings do not begin to play when she sees Fig. It’s more of a soft warmth that swims lazily through her body when Fig says her name. It’s feeling excited when she sees that Fig has texted her, and it’s thinking about Fig at random, unimportant moments throughout the day. There was no grand display of fireworks when she suddenly realised that she was in love with Fig. It was a collection of small moments that built and built and built, and somewhere among them, Adaine stopped thinking of Fig as just a friend. Adaine can’t pinpoint the exact moment that she fell in love with Fig, she just knows that she does. Compared to this, the details don’t seem so important. 

Adaine looks for clues that perhaps Fig feels the same way. She replays little things that Fig has said for her, searching for some underlying meaning. She examines texts, even almost going so far as to consider showing them to Riz to see if he can decode a secret love letter weaved in between them. Which, of course, was a stupid idea. Adaine doesn’t think Riz could recognise flirting if someone wrote it on a brick and smacked him in the face with it. 

Adaine doesn’t have a lot of evidence, so all she can do is hope. She hopes that when Fig says, “She’s my best friend,” she’s really saying  _ I love you _ . Adaine hopes that when Fig says, “I don’t want to lose you,” she’s really saying  _ I love you.  _ Adaine hopes that when Fig says, “I gave everything to try to save you,” she’s really saying  _ I love you.  _ Adaine can hope. 

Maybe Fig isn’t saying these things at all, so for now Adaine will have to say them herself. Each time she tells Fig that she can help with her homework, or that they can practice spell-casting together, or that she’ll come to a gig, she is whispering  _ IloveyouIknowyouIpriortiseyou _ . She wonders if Fig can hear. She wishes, just once, that Fig will cast  _ Detect Thoughts  _ on her and Adaine will be able to tell Fig everything without having to say anything at all. But that’s not Fig. Fig, master of disguise, always ready to try to stealth and collect clues, would not use her strength against her friends. And therein lies the issue. 

Sometimes Adaine will lie awake and she’ll say everything out loud into the darkness. She throws everything out into the universe, hoping that somehow, somewhere, Fig will catch it, and she’ll turn up at Adaine’s door, grinning that Fig grin, and hold her hand out, saying, “ _ Look what I found _ .” 

But for now, until Fig stumbles across the trail that Adaine is leaving for her with every interaction they share, Adaine will wait. She’ll sit and she’ll listen to Fig proudly call Adaine her  _ best friend _ , and wonder why those words manage to wound her just as effectively as they spark joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting AGAIN but like, Emily Axford truly said Aberfaeth rights in yesterday's livestream and I have to respect her for that.


	4. Performance Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riz sets some boundaries with Fabian.

Like most things in Riz Gukgak’s life, it starts off normal until it isn’t.

They’re on Fabian’s bed with Riz sort of on Fabian’s lap, sort of in between his legs. Fabian is leaning back against the headboard. And then it happens. It happens and Riz’s brain completely falters for a moment, only unhelpfully chiming in with a parody of a commentators voice:  _ we interrupt this regular making out session to bring you Fabian taking his shirt off _ . And: oh no. Oh no, because Riz has seen enough rom-com’s (forced upon him while wedged between Fig and Ayda) and teen romance movies (watched ironically with Adaine) to know where this is going. Something in Riz picks up, his heart quickening, but not in the good way he’s used to when he’s around Fabian, or on Fabian’s bed. This is a lot more like panic.

“I- uh- no,” Riz stutters. Fabian stops, shirt halfway over his nose, and stares at Riz. 

“No?” Fabian asks, his voice muffled behind the fabric. 

“No. Thank you for the offer-“ Riz cringes internally at his poor choice of words, but he truly has no other way of communicating, the wires in his brain sparking and malfunctioning, “I’m sorry, Fabian, I-“ 

Fabian pulls his shirt back down, and looks at Riz with wide eyes. Riz wants to crawl into his own skin and hide, because he knew this would come, eventually, he just hasn’t been sure when. 

“Are you okay?” Fabian says, frowning and surveying Riz’s face. 

“Yeah, I...” Riz feels himself flushing with embarrassment, suddenly feeling silly, still wedged between Fabians’s legs. He pushes himself back and sits with a hefty distance between Fabian and himself. Fabian looks wounded for a moment, and then shakes it off, concern overriding whatever hit he just took to his pride.

“Are you ill?” Fabian asks, “did I do something wrong?” 

“Not ill,” Riz mumbles, scratching the back of his neck, “I, uh, Fabian.” 

“Riz.” 

“You know I really like you, right?” Riz says earnestly, surveying Fabian’s face. Fabian’s face falls. 

“Oh no,” Fabian says, “you’re breaking up with me?” 

“What?” Riz says, “why would you think that?” 

“I mean, Adaine is always saying that you’re too good for me, and she says that I can’t just shower you in gifts, and then she started talking about something called love languages, which is frankly just bizarre, but she started saying how I need to make you feel seen by talking in yours so that you know that I appreciate you and-“ 

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” Riz says, watching as Fabian’s hands flail and he stammers over his words in that way he does when he’s flustered, “second of all, I’m not breaking up with you.” 

_I’m just scared that you’re going to break up with me,_ his brain once again chimes in with the unhelpful commentary. 

“Oh. Great. Cool. Of course. I didn’t  actually  think you were breaking up with me,” Fabian says with ease, slipping back into his brazen persona with little to no effort. Riz will have to talk him out of backtracking his vulnerability at some point, but that’s a conversation for another day. 

“Fabian, I don’t think,” Riz says, “I don’t think I can- I don’t have the same- I’m not.” 

Riz’s chest burns and his throat closes up, the same way it did when he told Sklonda that he liked boys, the way it did when he went to his Pok’s grave to break the news that he had a boyfriend, the way it did when he finally sat the rest of his party down and managed to choke out the word  gay . It should be easy, by now. Isn’t this all supposed to get easier? It doesn’t feel fair to feel the fear and the mental block every time he has to have a conversation about who he likes and what he’d like to do with them, or  not  do with them.

“Fabian, I don’t want to have sex with you,” Riz says, closing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see Fabian’s reaction. Fabian doesn’t say anything, or move, but when Riz opens his eyes, Fabian looks somewhat distraught. 

“Is-“ Fabian eventually says, “Is it something I did?” 

“No!” Riz says, the words rushing out of his mouth, “No, of course not. I think you’re very... handsome. I don’t want to have sex with you, but I don’t think I want to have sex with anyone. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to do that. I’m- there’s this thing, and I looked it up online, and took a quiz- and I think I might be... asexual.” 

The word hangs in the air, and Riz can see Fabian mulling it over in his mind. 

“So,” Fabian says slowly, carefully, “It’s not because of my eye?” 

“What?” Riz says, completely lost. Fabian pouts. “No!” 

“Don’t look at me like that, Riz. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. When you first said it, I thought you didn’t want to because you were, I don’t know, not in the mood because I wasn’t wearing my eyepatch and you found it... gross.” Fabian says. Riz reaches across and strokes Fabian’s face, trying not to laugh. 

“Believe me, Fabian. Even if you had two eyes, I still wouldn’t want to have sex with you. And for the record, I don’t find it gross.” 

“Just checking in,” Fabian says quietly. Riz feels his jaw unclench and his shoulders relax. An invisible weight floats off of him. Of course, Fabian had managed to find a way to make Riz’s second coming out about himself- but he had taken it well. 

“What’s your stance on making out, by the way?” Fabian says. Riz thinks it over- maybe he’ll save his ‘I find it fun but I’m probably not getting the same thing out of it that you are’ conversation for another now, lest he bruise Fabian’s ego. 

“No, making out is good. We can keep making out,” Riz says. 

Fabian claps his hands together, “Excellent! So, shall we get back to business?” 

“Fabian, I’m not making out with you if you call it ‘business’.” 

“I thought that would make you like it  more. ” 

Riz considered this, and then laughs, and leans back into Fabian. Just before he reaches Fabian, he stops, hesitant. 

“Do you- are you really okay with this?” Riz whispers. 

“I thought we were all good on the business front,” Fabian whispers back. 

“Stop calling is business. I mean, are you okay with me being asexual. I can’t give you something you might want,” Riz says uncertainly. 

“I know you think all of your friends are horned up sex craven succubi,” Fabian says, “but I’m happy with where we are. I’m happy with you, Riz Gukgak. I don’t know how things will work out in the future, but for now I’m fine with finding ways to work around our... differences in interest.” 

Fabian wraps his arms around Riz’s waist, “now will you stop overthinking and  please  join me for a corporate meeting.” 

“Please stop.” 

“A performance review?” 

“You’re just- you’re making it worse.”

“A chat in my office?” 

“Could you- actually, no. I kind of like that one.” 

Fabian leans forward, nudging Riz onto his back and hovering above him, “my office it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ace riz!!!! we might be getting ace riz!!! can i get a hell yeah! anyway this is so dumb and definitely not a chapter i thought i would be adding to this collection but i’m just very hyped for possibly ace riz.


	5. Golden Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaine’s thoughts moments before she killed her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads up, this is a very short, very messy exploration of abuse within a family. If abuse is a sensitive or triggering subject for you, please take care of your own mental health and forgo this chapter.

In that split second, Adaine knows.

It’s the lack of remorse on her fathers face. It’s the way he looks the same way he’s always done- bored, unimpressed, his mouth a hard, thin line. He looks at the crumpled body of his eldest daughter the way he looks at his newspaper over breakfast. Like a spectator, detached from any events in front of him. Like he has no say in what he has just done. Like he doesn’t care.

All these years Adaine has been convincing herself that nothing could ever happen to golden child Aelwyn. Nobody would dare lay a finger on perfection incarnate Aelwyn. Her father would go to the end of the world to rescue his precious little girl. And here, in the middle of the forest, Adaine watches as her world view dissolves into the dirt beneath her.

Adaine thinks of the icy grip on her shoulder as a child. Always presuming that Aelwyn was not experiencing the same fate on the other side of her. Never bothering to check.

Adaine thinks of the orb. She thinks of Aelwyn’s eyes, sunken and grey. Before that, she thought Aelwyn had always had it easy. That Adaine was the scapegoat while Aelwyn floated through life, this beautiful, graceful thing who could do no wrong in the eyes of her parents. Of course she could do wrong. Adaine is lurched back into Aelwyn’s mind, and all the fear that curdled there, an ugly mirror to Adaine’s psyche. Aelwyn has always been just as afraid, but she knew how to skirt consequences, how to make a tightrope out of abuse and walked and walked until her feet bled but would never fall. Until she did. Until she fell from grace and she became worse than Adaine in her parents eyes, and the consequences finally caught up to her. A tragic end to such a careful balancing act.

Adaine knows that there will come a time in Aelwyn’s life when she will reconcile with the fact that their parents never loved her. They loved what Aelwyn represented. They loved their nuclear family and their family name being passed onto someone capable enough to not bend or break under the weight of the crown they gave her. They loved the idea of the perfect daughter, and the second that idea faltered, they broke her down until she was dust.

In that split second, Adaine knows, and she draws a fist back. 


End file.
